


the edge of the carving knife

by thatyourefuse



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: (sort of), Blackie O'Reilly is like the author's favorite tertiary character in anything in years, Gen, Missing Scene, Screenplay/Script Format, Tarot, canon-typical Ben Horne being awful, canon-typical abuse of poetry, canon-typical noir iconography, canon-typical sexualized menace, ladies sing the blues, minor stylistic experiments, the author basically just has a lot of feelings about brothels, the author is not sorry, the unrelenting self-pity and ennui of horrible men, this dynamic is everything the author is a sucker for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 18:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10972533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatyourefuse/pseuds/thatyourefuse
Summary: Don't smoke in bed.





	the edge of the carving knife

INT. ONE-EYED JACK'S — BLACKIE'S OFFICE — NIGHT

Only the desk lamp is switched on, less illuminating than deepening the room's folds and complications of red. Outside the window, a thin but persistent rain sizzles into neon, underpinning the tinny drawl of a transistor radio playing Eartha Kitt's "Monotonous."

Behind the desk, BLACKIE O'REILLY in the crumples of a black satin gown slouches perilously in her throne of a chair. Before her, beside the radio and beside a half-full ashtray and a half-empty Collins glass, are splayed out an age-softened deck of Tarot cards and a sleek silver lighter. She holds a cigarette lazily tipped between two fingers, intermittently using it to trace out the brass flourishes of the song. Its small light casts long shadows on her haggard, lovely face.

The door clicks open, revealing BENJAMIN HORNE: shirt half-open, cuffs loose, and otherwise in telling disarray. From the slow and uncharacteristic precision of his movements, he is very tired and well past very drunk. Blackie watches, unreacting, as he collars an elaborately carved chair and drags it over to face her across the desk.

He groans softly as he sits, his posture loosening.

BLACKIE  
How's the night treating you?

BEN  
About average, my love, about average.

He helps himself to a lengthy sip of her drink, grimaces, carefully sets the glass back down.

BEN  
( _cont'd_ )  
You tell me how a man can want the first bite of an apple more than anything in the world, and then the minute he's got his teeth in it, all he's left holding is a piece of fruit.

A sharp smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

The radio is now playing Sarah Vaughan's "I'm Through With Love."

BLACKIE  
Gnawed on the core for a while, though, didn't you?

BEN  
Waste not, want not.

BLACKIE  
You're a man of many virtues.

Silence between them.

Blackie ashes her cigarette. 

Ben watches her, his face impassive and worn almost smooth with Scotch and exhaustion.

BEN  
Tell me something true, Black.

BLACKIE  
( _flat_ )  
Don't smoke in bed.

Without changing his expression or looking away from her face, Ben reaches out and takes her lighter from the desk. He flicks it carelessly to life, the dancing flame carving out a slight but deep smile on his mouth. The angle of his head asks a question that expects the answer "no." Perhaps "please no." Perhaps a cry.

Her face is impassive. Her hands clutch convulsively at themselves. The space of a deep breath.

BLACKIE  
( _cont'd, rough_ )  
Give me a minute.

BEN  
All the time in the world.

She stabs out her cigarette, hands still subtly trembling, and reaches for the cards. Despite her obvious tension, the shuffle is smooth and professional.

The radio is now playing Billie Holiday's "Love Me Or Leave Me."

BLACKIE  
It works better if you ask a question.

BEN  
What is there I don't already know?

BLACKIE  
( _deliberately misunderstanding_ )  
That'll do.

Left-handed, she cuts the deck neatly into three piles and turns over the top card of each.

From left to right, we see: King of Wands, The Chariot, Justice.

BLACKIE  
You don't know, and you don't want to.

BEN  
Did I ask you a question, or did I ask you a question?

BLACKIE  
( _"you asked"_ )  
Repent, Harlequin. There's a storm coming down the line.

In one smooth movement, he scoops up the deck. She winces. He shuffles it together tidily, practiced, although not quite as practiced as hers.

BEN  
I don't believe in fortune telling.

Watching him, she is almost concerned for him against all judgment and all history. She doesn't much like the feeling, or herself for experiencing it.

BLACKIE  
Why don't you go home now, Benjamin?

BEN  
Why don't I take a bath in a pit of vipers? And why don't you fix me another drink?

She stands, makes her way to the sideboard. Opens a decanter, stands for a moment with her head bowed and the stopper hanging between her fingers.

Silently and without warning, Ben's hands close tightly over her bare shoulders, very close to her throat. She startles violently, and tries to shrink away without moving. The stopper falls from her fingers. We do not see her face.

The radio is now playing Julie London's "Get Out Of Town."

BEN  
On second thought. Why don't you dance with me?

The speed with which she straightens her posture is abrupt and terrifying. She turns cleanly into his arms, and is smiling.

They move together slowly, easily. No flash, no Astaire, but a solid rung or two above garden-variety intoxicated swaying: she knows how to make him look good.

BEN  
( _cont'd, reciting, soft_ )  
"My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.  
Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.  
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?  
I never know what you are thinking. Think."

He strokes her cheek with the backs of two fingers. She sighs.

BLACKIE  
There are times I'd sink a knife in your throat if I thought you'd hit the floor. And then there are times I really want to see you hurt.

BEN  
I come for the entertainment, I stay for the honesty.

BLACKIE  
It comes from the heart.

BEN  
A rare quality in this life.

They continue dancing, circling softly over the floor. She is shoeless, in her stocking feet. One has a run starting in the toe.

The radio is now playing Peggy Lee's "Black Coffee." He spins her slowly, almost romantically, her crushed skirt swinging.

FADE, SLOWLY, TO BLACK.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this wasn't exactly what I meant to do today. Still, I can't say I'm displeased.
> 
> *   
>  [Eartha Kitt — Monotonous](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bCoPV6oA9g)   
> 
> *   
>  [Sarah Vaughan — I'm Through With Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zxRyEo4jcSQ)   
> 
> *   
>  [Billie Holiday — Love Me Or Leave Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--9aIYos4M8)   
> 
> *   
>  [Julie London — Get Out Of Town](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhQH6vwC4Sw)   
> 
> *   
>  [Peggy Lee — Black Coffee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVnrEh56f_g)   
> 
> 
> Title from Raymond Chandler's "Red Wind":
>
>> There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.
> 
> "'Repent, Harlequin!' Said the Ticktockman" is a short story by Harlan Ellison. The poem Ben is abusing is, of course, section two of _The Waste Land_.
> 
> This is absolutely _marinating_ in the Orson Welles/Marlene Dietrich thing from _Touch of Evil_ , but like so (deliberately, knowingly) is canon?


End file.
